by Anna Romer
So it was with a dull ache in my chest that I found myself back on the trail that led to the gully. Danny and I had set out from Thornwood at eight a.m. and had been walking for about forty minutes. My injured leg had flared up, especially after the steep climb, and was just starting to throb when Danny signalled to stop for a breather.
We found a rocky plateau overlooked by tall boulders that cast welcoming shade. Below stretched a spectacular vista of forested hills rolling to a pale blue horizon. There were distant glimpses of civilisation emerging through the trees like remnants of a lost world – brown paddocks, and a narrow dirt road that meandered to the east. There was no sign of the highway, and no other houses. Below us to the north-east, I could just make out the darkly treed depression of the gully.
Danny settled on a boulder and took two mandarins from his pocket, offered me one. I perched nearby on the flattest surface I could find, relieved to be off my leg. Content in the silence as I sailed my peelings into the shade of a stunted little bullock bush that looked as if it could use the nourishment. The mandarin was intensely sweet, seedy, gone in a flash. I wiped my fingers on my jeans, gazing at the distant hills as my thoughts escaped back into Aylish’s letters.
I imagined Samuel hurrying along the track from Thornwood to meet Aylish at the settlers’ hut, his skin moist from the climb and his pulse racing in anticipation of seeing her. At first I’d assumed they had met at the hut to avoid being discovered. After all, Samuel was the son of a wealthy doctor, while Aylish was the half-Aboriginal daughter of a poor Lutheran minister – which meant nothing these days, but back in the 1940s it would have created a scandal.
Now, sitting in the vast breathing stillness, basking in the warmth of a yellow day embroidered by birdsong – I came to understand what had really drawn them. Out here, there was space to breathe. No other soul for miles, no one to judge, no one to lay down rules and then insist that you abide by them. No one to criticise and find you lacking. No one to hem you in, tie you down, stifle you –
Something struck me on the side of the head. I flinched, envisioning a redback or flying snake or worse – then saw it was only a coin-sized fragment of mandarin peel.
I scowled at Danny. He was watching me, his eyes aglow, his hair on end, his lips on the verge of a smile. He took out his notebook, then came and sat nearby.
Leg okay? he wanted to know.
‘Yeah, good.’
He patted his pocket, drew out a box of Panadol. I brought these just in case.
A flush of warmth. ‘Thanks, that was thoughtful. I’m all right for now.’
He pondered me, as if deciding something. Then he wrote, What happened with Tony, why did you split?
Yikes, I thought. A million answers to that one. Tony grew bored with my constant probing, my questions, my need for reassurance. He became restless with our simple existence and went in search of greener pastures, wealth and fame and adventure. He needed far more out of life than I was able to offer . . .
I sighed. ‘He met someone else.’
Bummer, Danny finger spelled, but his expressive face was anything but sorrowful. He dashed off another note to add: He was an idiot.
I had to smile. ‘He found the right path, that’s all. Carol, his wife, is lovely. She doted on Tony, looked after him. She helped him with his career, smoothed the way for him. But it was more than that, too. They just clicked.’
Danny looked thoughtful. He wrote: You meet anyone else?
I shook my head.
Why not? he signed, feigning astonishment.
‘Too busy with my career. With raising a daughter.’
Back came the notebook. And the real reason?
I couldn’t meet his eyes, so I stared at the parched little bullock bush. Stretched my leg. Pondered popping a couple of Panadol to take the edge off the pain that was just starting to flare. Then I had to confess.
‘I never met anyone . . . anyone I clicked with, I mean.’
Danny nodded, studying my face as though my disclosure held utmost fascination for him. His obvious interest made me want to keep talking. There was so much I was curious about, and his unexpected inquisition about Tony had opened a doorway which would have made it easy for me to throw some questions of a more intimate nature back at him. Why did you offer to come up here with me today? Why do I get the feeling you’re flirting? And how do you manage the loneliness you must feel being deaf in a tiny backwoods community like Magpie Creek?
Instead I found myself saying, ‘Corey told me about your wife. I’m sorry.’
Me too, he signed, then finger-spelled, Bad for Jade.
‘She’s a great kid. She and Bronwyn are peas in a pod.’
Danny frowned. I reached for his notebook and wrote my comment. Danny smiled when he read it and signed, Yeah, they’re like sisters, aren’t they?
Crazy, how an innocent remark could make the heat fly to my cheeks. Mortified, I pretended interest in a magpie which had alighted nearby. It chortled, gaining volume until a full-throated song burst from its throat, sending shivers up my spine.
The corkscrew branches of the old angophora were black against the lake-blue sky, the delicate grey-green foliage motionless as a held breath. I liked being here, I found I felt comfortable with Danny. And yet my heart was at war. I was a leaf caught in raging floodwaters, being swept towards something I longed for . . . yet deeply feared. The speed and forward motion were exhilarating – but I was out of my depth, craving the familiar safety of solid ground.
From the corner of my eye I saw Danny lean back, scratching his fingers lazily through his chaotic hair, making the muscles in his arm bunch up. I tried not to look, but his fingers began moving in the air, and I had to turn my head to read them.
This place makes me think of Tony.
‘Why?’
Danny took out his notebook. We used to sit here when we were kids. On our way up to the hut, like we are now.
Maybe it was the beauty of the landscape surrounding us, or the sun’s scorching heat, or the vaguely edgy feeling I always had when Danny was near. Then again, maybe it was the secret I now carried in my heart, eroding it from the inside like rot in an apple core, making me throw all caution to the wind.
I found myself asking, ‘Why do you think Tony never stayed in contact with anyone here? Not you . . . not even his mother? I can understand that he was grieving for his sister, but it strikes me as odd that he cut himself off from his past so completely.’
Danny shrugged. He looked at his hands for a long time, then began to write in his book.
The night he ran away, he came to say goodbye. It was late, Tony climbed through my bedroom window. He looked sick, pale and sweaty. He said he had to leave, that he’d done something bad.
That got me. ‘Bad . . . like what?’
He began to write again, filling the small page with his looping scrawl. Tilting my head, I tried to read the top line but then he finished, tore off the leaf and passed it to me with a flourish.
I asked what had happened, but he wouldn’t tell me. He seemed scared, kept looking around, jumping at noises.
Danny began another note, but halfway through he stopped. Tucking his notebook and pen into the waistband of his jeans, he began to sign rapidly, almost frantically, his gestures precise and fast and urgent. I wondered if he was swearing again, and watched, fascinated.
He must have known I was lost, but he didn’t seem able to stop or slow down. His hands were graceful as they marked out a stream of silent words: forefinger skating the length of his arm, his fist slapping his open palm, the side of his hand slicing the air. Swift, almost violent gestures that – despite my inability to read them – were shockingly vocal.
I had come to believe that the language of the deaf was a precarious, abstract thing. Signing required physical effort; lip reading was dodgy at the best of times; writing everything down was time-consuming and tedious. Subtleties of tone, the warmth or chill in a person’s voice, the harshness or tenderness of
pitch – all coloured a language, gave it a multilayered subtext that was vital to full communication. If those nuances were unavailable, flattened into a series of hand signals and voiceless gestures, how could you know for sure you were being understood?
And yet, without me catching a word, Danny’s meaning came across loud and clear. His animated face, his tense shoulders, his fast-moving hands – the feeling of frustration and sorrow that radiated out of him – all spoke volumes.
Something bad had happened, and Tony felt responsible. Whatever it was, Tony’s fear had infected Danny as well.
Danny stopped signing and took up his notebook. One page, two. Three. He tore the sheets off together, pressed them into my hand.
Tony convinced me to take him to the bus depot, he had a pocketful of change he took from his father’s jar. After long arguing, I agreed. I gave him more dollars, then dinked him on my bike to the depot.
I flipped to the next page, ripped it a little in my haste.
We were too early for a bus so we waited ’til morning. When the first bus opened its doors, we hugged goodbye and Tony got on. I never saw him again.
And the next:
Later, I learnt gossip – that Tony had argued with Glenda the night she died, pushed her. I told Corey what he’d told me about doing something bad. She said: Take no notice, Tony would never do that. She said: Never tell anyone. So I never did. Until now.
My fingers shook as I folded the notes, tucking them out of sight with the others in my pocket. My leg was complaining now, bright threads of pain leaping and writhing along the edges of my awareness.
‘Before, you said that Tony seemed scared . . . What might he have been scared of?’
Danny gathered the mandarin peelings he’d scattered around his feet and tossed them under the bullock bush on top of mine. He looked back at me, squinting against the sunlight.
Don’t know.
The patchy shade seemed to grow hotter. I pressed my palms over my cheeks. They were burning.
‘What about the bad thing he said he did? What could that have been?’
Danny shrugged, shifting his attention off me and into the treetops. I sensed him withdrawing. Leaning over, I grasped his wrist, forcing him to turn back and look at my lips. ‘You think he had something to do with Glenda’s accident?’
No.
‘What then?’
Wish I knew.
I scrambled to my feet, hiding my irritation by turning away, glaring down into the valley. The pressure in my head was almost intolerable. The sense of space and freedom I’d been enjoying a while ago was gone. In its place was a bright red ball of anger.
Why had Tony left us Thornwood? He must have known I’d fall in love with the place, want to live here. The high-ceilinged rooms and his grandfather’s gorgeous old collectables, the garden with its magical views . . . all elements Tony knew I’d go crazy for.
Hadn’t he also known that I would, by my very nature, be curious about the past? His past? Hadn’t he known that I’d pick away at the threads until it finally unravelled? And hadn’t it occurred to him that my discoveries would not only trouble me, but cast their monumental shadow over Bronwyn as well?
Fingers touched the side of my face.
You okay? Danny wanted to know.
I nodded, but I wasn’t. Not really. My mind was darting from memory to memory like a dragonfly skating over a muddy pond: Tony beaming at his newborn daughter. Tony teaching Bronwyn to use her first butterfly net. Excursions to the beach, fish and chips on the foreshore, the beaming smiling pair of them climbing the Elwood beach lookout, the salt wind putting roses in their cheeks . . .
Had it all been a lie?
Danny shifted into my line of sight. He tucked a strand of hair behind my ear.
You’re burning. Forgot hat?
Before I had a chance to step away, he brushed his thumb beneath my eye, collecting the tear I hadn’t realised I’d shed. Then he grabbed my hand. His palm was warm and dry, his fingers closing around mine with more familiarity than I had faculty to cope with. He tugged me out of the glaring sun and into the shadows of a nearby red gum. He seemed too near, the warmth of his body far greater than the heat radiating off the outcrop of stones. I tried to get my fingers back, but he wouldn’t let them go. He lifted them to his chest, pressed my palm flat over his heart.
Something raced under my touch . . .
Now would have been the perfect time to utter some amusing quip and turn my attention outwards, across the sundrenched hills; to pull away, slam down the shutters, cocoon myself in frosty indifference – as my better judgement was urging me to do.
Instead I allowed Danny’s gravitational force to draw me nearer. I felt the stillness of him quieten my ragged nerves, felt his calm aura radiate out and envelop me. Like him, I became motionless. And then, as he tugged me suddenly and surely against him, as his arms closed around me and held my body snug against his, all I felt was relief. Melting, warm-bath, half-sleepy relief . . .
For a moment I lost myself. My body sank against him and I remembered what it was like to feel safe and complete. Remembered, too, the comfort that the right man’s arms could bring. I exhaled, feeling my doubts about Tony dissolve, feeling my fears evaporate. Feeling my faith trickle back as I basked in the simple pleasure of human contact.
Then I breathed in.
Fresh sweat and sunlight, a hint of soap. Dog hair, motor oil, the tang of citrus. I melted then, forgetting the danger. Letting myself notice the sturdy feel of his chest against my softness, allowing myself to steal a moment’s pleasure as his arms tightened around me. Half-aware that I was entering risky territory, ignoring the warning bells as his nearness turned me half-drunk with desire.
Lifting my face ever so slightly, I felt the rasp of his whiskers against my cheek. I took another hit of his intoxicating scent, unable to remember ever breathing in anything quite so good. I heard his soft intake of air, felt him breathe me in too; and then his lips made contact beneath my ear, moved soft and warm over my skin. I only had to tilt my face a little, lift my mouth to his, satisfy my longing to taste him –
I sprang back, tearing from his embrace. Stumbled as my injured leg tugged its stitches and began to hurt in earnest. Loose rubble skated beneath my ill-placed boots.
One wrong step . . .
Danny grabbed my arm. I regained my balance and yanked from his grasp. The shock on his face turned to confusion, then understanding.
It’s okay.
I looked at him. Couldn’t speak, so signed, No. Not okay.
Danny’s eyes were dark, reflecting my own bewildered longing, my confusion . . . but I couldn’t have ventured back to him had my life depended on it. My brain was slamming down on what had just happened, pinching off sensation and warmth in a bid to recover what remained of my protective shell. I wanted to curse myself. I should have seen the signs: the Auslan books and DVDs, the smitten giggling in the rose arbour, the interest with which I’d listened to Corey relate stories about him. Worse, the silk blouse . . . and heaven help me, the perfume.
I had to turn away, and it seemed the only direction to go from here was down. But I took the uphill track, cutting across the stony plateau and pushing through tea-trees and straggly brigalow, heading blindly and inevitably into the scorching sun.
By the time we entered the settlers’ hut clearing, my fear had dissipated, leaving in its wake a burning sense of embarrassment. I could hear Danny’s footfall crunching through the dry grass behind me, and I wanted to turn around and explain that I was scared of losing myself again, falling into a love trap that would most certainly – for me, at least – end in more heartache. But I’d made such a botch of things already that I decided it was best just to move on.
As we neared the old hut, I noticed how empty it seemed.
The battered cane chair was still propped at one end of the verandah, and the door hung ajar as it had the day I’d come here alone, but the place no longer had the feel of being inha
bited. I stopped at the foot of the steps and let Danny go ahead of me, already knowing what we’d find inside.
The derelict furniture remained, but the squatter had removed all other evidence that anyone had been living here. The mattress was bare of its army blanket, and the meat safe was no longer home to mouldy bread and jam. The candles, books, enamel cups and plates were all gone. Only the fusty smell of earth and stale body odour lingered. Leaves and twigs and bush detritus littered the floor and there was a dustiness to the place, as if the hut door had hung ajar for years inviting in the calling cards of windstorms, gales, cyclones; as if no one but possums and birds and the occasional lizard had set foot here for decades.
I stood in the doorway, watching Danny look around. He rattled open the tallboy, empty now of its shrine, the hanging compartment cleared of its gruesome memento. The squatter had surely noticed the box of letters missing, and I wondered how he was feeling about that. Annoyed, that someone had taken them . . . or just glad to have escaped his unlawful occupation of my property without confrontation?
I wondered if he’d known that Samuel and Aylish had used the hut as a secret trysting place – then amended that thought; of course he had, he would have gleaned that from their letters. I looked around with fresh eyes. Would Aylish recognise the hut now? How would she have felt to know that sixty years after her death, someone lived here . . . worse, that he’d been in possession of her private letters and the photograph she’d once given to Samuel?
I could only speculate about how the letters had come to be at the hut. A young Cleve might have stashed them here after Aylish died, fearing they’d be found in his possession . . . and probably guessing that Samuel would shun the place for the memories it held for him. For years the letters had lain here, gathering dust in some hidden nook, only seeing the light of day when the unsuspecting squatter had discovered them.